


The Box in Room 11

by shy_violet_soul



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Weechesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-07 07:07:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16849438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shy_violet_soul/pseuds/shy_violet_soul
Summary: I think the first time I fell in love with these brothers’ history was 1:18, when Dean gave up his Lucky Charms for Sammy.  His too-grown-up sacrifice broke my heart.  Baby Sammy’s smiling, innocent offer of the prize in the box melted the broken heart pieces.  And that moment kickstarted the muse.





	The Box in Room 11

**Author's Note:**

> A huge thank you to the awesome SPN fic writers who showered some beta magic on this! Thank you, thank you @crispychrissy(tumblr) and @thesassywallflower!
> 
> Supernatural characters belong to CW and their creators. This is a work of fiction. Please do not repost without my permission.

There’s a box in Room 11 that is precious to both the brothers.

One of them knows about it.  One of them doesn’t.

While scrounging the nooks and crannies of the bunker, Dean found the old trunk in the storage room.  Sturdy, sizeable, it smelled soothingly of cedar as he centered it carefully at the end of his bed. In one corner sat the old baseball glove Bobby gave him as a boy.  The leather was scuffed, worn shiny in some places, a bit cracked in others. Tucked underneath it was the only yearbook he ever got - junior year, 1995, Shadyside Tigers.  His dad’s US Marines cap lay upside down, a medal engraved with ‘New York State Youth Association - Wrestling Champion’ inside it with the red and blue ribbon carefully folded.  His first fake ID’s rubberbanded together - ‘Brian Wilson, Bikini Inspector’; ‘William Greer, IRS’; ‘Robert Palmer, CDC’. The antique pocket watch Pastor Jim gave him when he turned eighteen, the 1988 ‘Sports Illustrated’ with Elle McPherson he stole from a guy’s locker in the 5th grade, a handful of prize tickets from a county fair he’d taken Cassie Robinson to rounded out the collection of mementos from his younger years.

And there was the box.

The old ‘Bank Note’ cigar box looked ordinary.  Unremarkable. If you lifted it to your nose and sniffed deeply, you could still catch a whiff of bitter tobacco.  It had been carted around for twenty-odd years, shoved under dirty socks, ammo, and a crumpled sandwich bag of matchbooks. The odd scratch here and there, the ragged corners spoke of long handling.  As beat up as the box was, it held Dean’s most priceless treasures.

Nestled dead center in a place of honor lay the very first treasure from decades past.  Fort Douglas, Wisconsin. Nine or ten year old Dean, already a world-weary parent. Another night of dad leaving them alone.  A dumped out bowl of Spagetti-o’s, and the sacrifice of the last bit of Lucky Charms he’d saved for himself. And Sammy’s first gift - the coveted prize in the box.

To anyone else, the little plastic car meant nothing.  To Dean, it meant the world. Their childhood didn’t include many frivolities.  Crayons weren’t allowed in the backseat after the melting incident; their dwindling plastic soldier army had seen some troops go AWOL; and the Legos not in the vents had been lost in dribbles in countless motels and fast food stops.  The boys knew better than to ask for anything. But Dean had watched Sam stare at the Hot Wheels cars and super hero action figures stacked up on the endcaps of Gas n’ Sips across the entire midwest. At his young age, he couldn’t name the feeling that put a knot in his belly at the sight of little Sammy going without even a toy.  So, a car, hot rod red, with wheels that shot it forward when you rolled it backwards? A prize of the highest degree. And little Sammy had given it to him. So, it had been the first treasure in the box. 

A few months later, he’d been ready to pound on his baby brother when he’d come out from showering to see every bowl, cup, and plate in the puke-green kitchenette filled to overflowing with Corn Flakes from the brand new box.  As Dean drew in a breath to threaten the little runt’s life, Sammy had smiled with dimpling delight as he trotted to him with outstretched hands. His pudgy little fingers offered up a genuine Starbot robot, complete with punching arm.

He’d tried to insist Sam keep it, but the little twerp turned those puppy dog eyes on him and he caved.  He covered up his true pleasure by gruffly ordering him to clean up the mess. Too grown-up to show how happy he was over a  _ toy _ , Dean waited until Sammy was asleep before carefully placing the little grey plastic robot in with the red car.

Months passed, filled with shorter pant legs and outgrown, too-tight shoes.  The collection in the box grew, too. A color-changing spoon from a box of Trix.  A yellow, rooster-shaped bike reflector from another box of Corn Flakes. A box of Rice Krispies produced a baking soda submarine.  And, their personal favorite, a ghost detector courtesy of Apple Jacks. He couldn’t remember how many days they’d spent laughing over that thing.  

But Dean never forgot the unabashed joy on his little brother’s face whenever he presented him with a new gift.

Every once in a while, when Dean reorganized the chest contents or was searching for some beef jerky, he’d open that cigar box.  One long finger would stir through the trinkets, mouth quirking in a soft smile. Each one held a memory that he hoarded up selfishly.  But one - one was particularly special.

Sam had just turned ten.  He could remember the glint of the dollar coins in the sun as Bobby flipped them to him, one right after the other - five whole dollars for a birthday gift.  Even now, he smiled again as he remembered the excited astonishment on his little brother’s face. After hours on the road and a stop at Gas n’ Sip, John had installed the boys in a motel room before leaving to chase down a lead.  Dean had kept his shower short, hoping to see if this motel had cable before bedtime. The scene that greeted him at the wobbly kitchen table gave him pause.

Six boxes of Cracker Jack sat scattered across the dented, scratched surface.  The caramel-popcorn treat had been poured into an elephant-shaped cookie jar from the counter. Dean stepped closer, popping a few pieces into his mouth as he glanced at his brother.  He and his dad were big fans of the sweet & salty snack, but Sam - not so much. Dean took in the tiny plastic bags and scraps of torn paper strewn about the boxes, a couple of plastic bead necklaces, a sparkly pink hair clip, and a couple of rub-on flower tattoos scattered about.  Sam, studiously wiping at something over the sink, still hadn’t noticed his brother.

The gangly kid had nearly jumped out of his skin when his big brother asked what in tarnation he was doing.  His smile had been all triumph and glee when he’d presented the object: a metal badge pin, etched with ‘Special Police’.

_ “It’s for you!  Here!” Sam chirped.  Dean blinked at him in confusion. _

_ “Do you mean that you bought six boxes of something you don’t even like for this?  Where did you get the money?” The dimples disappeared as Sam stood wordlessly. That knot in his stomach, now familiar after years of it, hit Dean anew.  “Your birthday money. Sam, Bobby gave that to you for YOU, you beanpole!” _

_ “I know that, Dean.  And I spent it how I wanted to.”  Again, he offered the pin to him. “Here.  I had to get more than one box because my odds at gambling suck, remember?” _

_ Dean didn’t move, couldn’t move.  This small gesture made his birthday gift to Sam seem small and worthless; what normal ten year old kid wanted a three-pack of Bic lighters, anyway?   _

_ A deep sigh from Sammy snapped his attention back to the present, and he watched as his little brother dropped his hand to his side. _

_ “Look, Dean.  I saw this little kid at that last diner wearing this pin.  When I went to the john, I stopped and asked him where he got it, and he said from a box of Cracker Jack.  You’re always talking about how Dad’s a hero, better than a police officer. And, well - you’re MY hero. Better than dad.” _

_ “Don’t say that!” _

_ “Well, it’s true.  You’re the one who’s always looking out for me.  And I really wanted you to have this. So, when Bobby gave me the five dollars, I wanted to try to get this for you.  Please take it.” _

_ Dean stared at the shiny pin, carefully taking it in his hand.  Mistaking his reserve for disgust, Sam hurried to speak. _

_ “I know you’re a grown up, it’s dumb, you don’t have to keep it -” he blurted out, moving to snatch it back.  His big brother leaned it out of his reach, smiling past the lump in his throat. _

_ “Thanks, Sammy.  I love it.”  _

_ The ten year old returned his smile, relief relaxing his shoulders.  After a moment, his grin widened. _

_ “Besides, let’s just look at this as birthday cake!  I can use one of the lighters as a candle!” he chattered out as he waved a hand at the overflowing cookie jar.   _

Dean could still see Sam’s smile in the wavering glow from the lighter, and him always having one of those birthday lighters in his pocket weeks later.  He could hear the laughter from both of them as they gorged themselves on the Cracker Jack. He remembered making his dad turn around because he was sure he’d left the can of salt on the nightstand when really he went running back to get the badge pin he’d accidentally left in the drawer.  

After a childhood lived out of duffel bags and a crowded trunk, the Winchesters still struggled with the concept of personal possessions.  Even after living in the bunker for some time, it was hard to break a decades-long habit of living ‘temporary’. Most of their favorite belongings still ended up centered around the hunting life.  That life had taught painful lessons about loss that would have sent stronger people running for a hermit’s existence, decrying any and all reminders of a past overrunning with tragedy. 

But not the Winchester brothers.  They still relished their happier memories.  Little bright gleams scattered like lucky pennies amid the darkness of their years, giving them something to hold on to and drive from.  

Some of those memories lived in a box.   A box that one of them knew about, and one of them didn’t.

A box in room 11.


End file.
